Out Of Order
by Kleine Aster
Summary: A Fanfic Writer´s me attempt to mess with perfection The Corleones. It´s a Romance I won´t reveal who´s doin who, read and find out and may even receive nonslash R for some chapters. Godfather worshippers, i know you´re out there. Enjoy!
1. Default Chapter

Out Of Order - A Corleone Scribble  
  
A FANFIC AUTHOR´S SLAYING OF THE WORLD´S GREATEST SAGA. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK. OH, AND ENJOY. IF POSSIBLE.  
  
Intro: ABOVE THE WAN TAN SHACK, 5 AM  
  
"Listen...."  
  
She could feel him move next to her in the dark, half asleep, in response to her voice.  
  
Dang.  
  
She was somewhat dissapointed that he was still awake. It would´ve been more easy to get over with it with him lying there unconscious.  
  
So, he seemed to be one of those few who didn´t doze off right after they were done, but his voice was already drowsy, and hoarse and sore from the night´s moaning and screaming, when he replied: "Yeah?"  
  
"I-I have to tell you something...."  
  
He didn´t bother to open his eyes. "Go ahead. Tell me." His voice was impassive, but she could feel him shiver in a certain way when her naked skin touched his. A way she liked.  
  
She had raised herself in the sheets, to bend over him. "I-I just want you to know that...."  
  
Her face was close. Her hair was slightly tickling his face. She took a deep breath, then she said it:  
  
"I really don´t love you."  
  
She waited, anxiously. Then she could, despite the darkness, finally see a motion in his face.  
  
He was smiling. Not at her exactly, but he was positively smiling.  
  
"I know. I really don´t love you myself."  
  
She felt thankful tears welling in her eyes. "You s-sure?"  
  
He nodded. She started to weep.  
  
"B-because I was starting to feel bad, you know," she confessed, sobbing. "I-I mean I-I´m really using you. I-it´s not like we have a love story or something, it´s none of this romantic once-in-a-lifetime-stuff, it´s just one of those really coldhearted, ordinary nasty little flings, y-you know that. I´m just trying to squeeze advantages out of you. And some more of this incredibly wild sex, too", she added as an afterthought.  
  
He lifted his arm to pat her comfortingly on the back in a way that, she knew, would´ve freaked her out in any other person except him.  
  
"Don´t you worry," he said firmly. "I fully agree with you."  
  
"You don´t say that just to...to comfort me or something?"  
  
He shook his head on the pillow. "Nah," he said softly. "I really don´t love you, I don´t give a damn about you, I promise. I´m sure."  
  
They smiled at each other in mutual agreement. She lay down again, placing her head on his chest.  
  
"Well," she sighed, "isn´t this lovely?"  
  
"Yeah," he said softly. "It is."  
  
AUTHOR´S NOTE  
  
THAT`S FOR STARTERS, IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHO THE HELL IS BURNIN SHEETS HERE AND WHAT ALL THE CRAP IS ABOUT, MOVE ON TO THE CHAPTERS, WHICH ARE A PRELUDE TO THIS MAKE-OUT. JUST ENJOY IT AN REVIEW, AND BEFORE YOU FLAME ME, LET ME MENTION THAT MY DAD´S GODFATHER OF CLEVELAND AND HE CAN MAKE THINGS QUITE NASTY FOR YOU. THANKS. HAVE FUN. 


	2. One: The Girl Gone Crazy

Out of Order  
  
DSICLAIMER AND APOLOGY: THE CORLEONE UNIVERSE OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO THE CREATIVE MINDS OF MARIO PUZO AND FF COPPOLA. THIS FANFIC OWES ITS GOOFBALL PLOT AND MINDLESS ROMANCE TO ME. I LOVE THOSE TWO GUYS AND THE GODFATHER, AND I WROTE THIS STORY JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT. I´D PREFER NOT TO GET WHACKED. HAVE A NICE READ!  
  
One:  
  
Two Weeks Earlier - THE GIRL GONE CRAZY  
  
I don´t deserve this, she thought for what wasn´t the first time in her life. I really don´t think I deserve this.  
  
At last, she thought, this is the way you wanted it. Now swallow it whole.  
  
She could make it. She could. She could do this on her own.  
  
She swallowed hard and looked around, barely able to face the horrors that surrounded her, and all the eagerness, all the anticipation she had built up inside her imploded like a balloon.  
  
Nah, she couldn´t.  
  
She opened her mouth to speak.  
  
"I," she stated, " am the daughter of Don Vito Corleone. I shouldn´t have to suffer this."  
  
The small room, however, remained unimpressed.  
  
Her shopping bags slipped from her manicured hands, slumping on the floor on each side of her body. Some three months ago, these bags would´ve been Gucci and Armani bags, containing the newest and neatest of couture and lingerie and shoes.  
  
Today, on the other hand, they were plain brown paper bags containing cigarettes, instant coffee, cookies, a bottle of Vodka, tons of chinese duck soup cans and a pink romance novel she had started to read at the counter and hadn´t been able to put down. It was entitled "The Garden Of Tingling Passion". Which was a bit of a sad laugh considering that she was as far from Tingling Passions as anyone could be.  
  
When she had gone out, she had wanted to buy some fresh peppers, tomato, fine squid and Pasta to cook, but had realized on the way that there was no point. She had always loved cooking, it was one of the few things she was great at, she even considered it a kind of meditation. This was something she had inherited by her mother, who had been the invincible force in the Corleone kitchen. Cooking had always calmed her spirits in situations like these.  
  
But she hated to cook for herself. It sucked.  
  
For she wasn´t only in a mess, she wasn´t only broke, she was also lonely, which was probably the worst bit.  
  
She allowed her body to go limp, give in, collapse into the dusty armchair - the only piece of furniture she positively owned at the moment - and lit herself a cigarette.  
  
She gave a snorting little laugh when she remembered how her brother had tried to permit her to smoke her delicate little designer cigarettes in his house while all his cronies lounged around puffing away gigantic cigars. That ancient-minded, misanthropic sonofabitch.  
  
Anyway, he was gone, and so were the designer cigarettes.  
  
Finally.  
  
Last time she had turned her back on her family (or what was left of it), she had been granted the chance to redeem, to crawl back to shelter, but this time, she was out. Final. Full stop. No more.  
  
She was an outkast, she had been shunned, she was considered crazy, out of line, out of order, the one who wasn´t talked about at the family receptions (which was saying something since there was usually a great deal of talking about Connie Corleone at family receptions). She couldn´t have returned if she´d wanted to, which at the moment she was pretty sure she didn´t.  
  
If only it hadn´t been for the letter by her bank this morning, in which she was kindly demanded to hand back her golden credit card.  
  
She continued smoking, snipping the ashes carelessly on the floo-striken carpet.  
  
Connie, Connie, Connie, she thought in her brother´s cold, sneering voice. What´s become of you?  
  
"Don´t ask," she croaked into the emptiness.  
  
She took a break while liting another cigarette. Ok. She was in a desperate situation. It wasn´t the first time in her life, but ah, well.  
  
In her mind, she skipped over all the worst case scenarios in her life (and there had been some), checking through all the tactics she had used to get out of them.  
  
She was very disappointed when she noted that all of those tactics involved picking up the phone and calling a man.  
  
In fact, this appeared to be the tactic in a whole.  
  
She would´ve called Papa. She would´ve called Sonny. She would´ve called Tom Hagen (over and over). She would´ve called Michael...and things would´ve been sorted out in a way...not the best way, maybe, but they would´ve been sorted out all right.  
  
But she had never, ever faced anything like this. And in the same second she realized this, she knew she would never swallow it, she would never bare it, she would never make it on her own.  
  
She was no heroine, she was no loner, she wasn´t strong, she wasn´t built to stand this.  
  
She closed her eyes as she felt desparation float trough every vein of her body like heavy liquor.  
  
Thinking of heavy liquor, she could use some... She reached for the Vodka bottle and struggled down a large sip.  
  
The alcohol fueled her energies once again, and turned her thoughts on a brighter level.  
  
So it was no use denying it. She wasn´t good at doing things by herself. On the other hand - she was a hell of a talent when it came to occupy others. She needed someone. Someone who could fix things up.  
  
As long as it wasn´t a scumbag like Carlo, her first husband, who appeared to be all hunky and muscles at first and then spent their short, devastating marriage easing inferiority complex over his general uselesness in slapping her around while she carried their baby. And who was only screwing her in the wild hope to become part of the Corleone family.  
  
As long as he wasn´t as dull, dull, DULL as her second husband, who she had married in an act of sheer desperation and now could hardly remember, except the annoyance she had felt realizing he was only screwing her (oh and he wasn´t even good at it) to manage his way to the top of the Corleone family.  
  
As long as it wasn´t a cheating little slimeball like Merle, who had been gone one morning, leaving a note: "Gone. Found female soulmate yesterday night. Off to Florida to found Beach Hotel. Getting married. Send you divorce papers. Don´t look for me. Hope you´re not too pissed. Bye. Merle. P.S.: Don´t bother telling your brothers about this, okay?" Merle, who had only screwed her because....oh, forget about it.  
  
And above all, as long as it wasn´t a cold-hearted bastard as her only remaining BROTHER, Michael, who had shut the door in the face of his own children´s mother, who preferred servants to confidants, whose cold, disapproving glare would follow her everywhere, who had greedily captured her in the role of a surrogate wife, because he knew he would never in his life again encounter someone he´d let close to him..  
  
Hell, she thought. What a bunch of bastards. Shame on you, Connie.  
  
Too bad Papa is dead, she thought, quite reasonably, I could use someone like Papa right now...  
  
...someone who had all the warmth, the kindness, the understanding of Vito Corleone, who would comofort her and shelter her the way she needed it, but who at the same time also had all the cunning, the boldness and virtue to attend her ailings...  
  
And then it occured to her.  
  
Slowly she started to smile as an intriguing thought entered her mind.  
  
Her smile was cold, calculating. It was the Corleone smile.  
  
She hadn´t thought about that for quite some time. But she remembered how it had been one of her favorite plots back then before she had finally quit plotting and settled on whining.  
  
Yeah, she thought. That would do.  
  
That might just WORK.  
  
And it was a challenge, too. A challenge of the kind she liked. Lovely.  
  
She hadn´t always done what was best for her. But this time, she swore to herself, she would.  
  
Still smiling, she turned around to reach the telephone. She dialed and put the receiver to her ear.  
  
Then she remembered how telephones weren´t working if you didn´t pay the bill.  
  
Cursing, she dropped the dead phone on the floor, successfully whacking the cockroach that had just been about to make its way to the kitchen, and got up to look for a cell phone. 


	3. Two: The One To Turn To

Out Of Order  
  
Two:  
  
THE ONE TO TURN TO  
  
After hours of endless struggling, the light bulb finally quit its service. It flickered, then faded, then died out with a feeble crack. The room went dark black.  
  
The man at the desk didn´t care. He didn´t notice.  
  
He was a solitary, hunched figure, his head resting on his arms, his arms resting on a pile of legal paperwork, altogether looking more dead than asleep.  
  
He would´ve remained like this for hours, unnoticed, undisturbed, and above all unconscious, if it hadn´t been for the phone next to him to start ring like mad.  
  
The cruel, frantic sound shattered the silence inside the heavy wooden office walls, and made his mind collide with reality again.  
  
In one painful second, he was thrown back into consciousness only to be greeted by an approaching headache and the constant ringing.  
  
He straightened, blinked, and waited patiently until the blurry spot on his desk had transformed itself into the shapes of a telephone again before finally picking it up.  
  
"Yes?" he whispered quietly, concentrating on blocking the Scotch intoxication out of his calm, low voice, holding the receiver very close to his ear.  
  
But he was, in no way, prepared for what was coming out of it.  
  
A loud shriek pierced his ear.  
  
"TOM?!" Connie Corleone yelped. "Tom, is that YOU?!"  
  
Considering that she had just dialed the private number of his private telephone standing in his private office in his home, this was sort of a pitiable question.  
  
Let alone the fact that he had absolutely no idea how she had gotten her hands on this number, he certainly hadn´t given it to her. It was reserved for urgent matters.  
  
Connie Corleone, as far as he knew her, and he knew her pretty well, never had any urgent matters. She only had irritable matters. Loads of.  
  
Anyway, this one time in his life, Tom Hagen was actually glad to speak to her.  
  
He was awake and sober within a second. His heart skipped a beat. Connie...at last...it was the first time she called someone from the family since she had left without a note four weeks ago.  
  
...if he could pursue her to tell him her whereabouts...Mike would be pleased...he needed a pen and a piece of paper....he needed it NOW....  
  
But why was it so damn dark in here....?  
  
Still fumbling with numerous shapeless items on his desk, he sensed that Connie made no attempt to speak up, and was more likely to sob madly into the receiver.  
  
Good thing too. If Tom knew one thing, he knew how to handle Connie when she was like this.  
  
He took the chance and started to talk, in a certain fashion, making no full sentences but instead uttering gentle, comforting bits in a very low, calming voice.  
  
He had found out that this tactic always worked on two sorts of creatures: the few animals he had encountered - and Connie Corleone.  
  
"Connie...Connie...it´s all right, Connie...everything´s gonna be fine...now shh... calm down...it´s ok...I´m listening...."  
  
It worked. The gentle stream of his words seemed to encourage her to burst in a new fit of tears combined with a very fast and simpering dribble.  
  
"O - o - o - o God, nothing´s ok, you h-have to help me out Tom, y - you really have to, I - I dunno what to do anymore, I´m so scared, it´s the horror, i - it´s about life or death, o God it´s so good to talk to you...I was so desperate, I - I simply dunno what to do and...and I didn´t know who to call, but then I knew you´d be there for me, ain´t you Tom, a-and you´ll help me...y-you know you´ve always been the one to turn to, and y-ou´re so c-completely wonderf-ful a-and...."  
  
Tom noticed that, although Connie sounded as if a nervous breakdown was just about to strike her flat on her back, she still had the sense to flatter him.  
  
He was, however, not the kind of man that could easily be flattered. And most of all not by that little drama queen, Constanzia Corleone, his younger sister.  
  
His hand wandered slowly to his temple, attending the massive headache her voice was giving him.  
  
"Connie," he said, in the most patient tone he could offer right now, "now calm down, whatever it is, we sort it out, it can´t be that bad..."  
  
"But it IS!" she squealed.  
  
Tom closed his eyes in distress. It was as if Carlo Rizzi - or more likely the endless domestic battle between Carlo Rizzi and Connie Corleone - had risen from the dead to haunt him.  
  
The whining turned into a series of little hiccups. "I....I....y´know Tom, I....sort of...made a little MESS recently..." These words were followed by an hysterical outburst of giggles that unmistakeably told him that "mess" must´ve been a hell of an understatement.  
  
His hands had finally gotten grip of a pen, or at least something that strongly resembled a pen.  
  
"You´ll be fine, Connie," he muttered absent-mindedly, yet kindly, while staring at his watch trying to figure out the time of the call.  
  
"Go on and tell me what happened."  
  
There was silence, only interrupted by little, girlish hiccups. Then, after a while, Connie replied, in an indignant tone, "I can´t tell you that on the phone."  
  
He smiled slightly. They were getting to the point. If she couldn´t tell him on the phone...that meant she was calling because she wanted to meet him somewhere, meaning she was finally willing to talk to a member of the family again, meaning she might expose to him where she was hiding.  
  
"All right then," he replied in his sweetest caring-brother voice, "wherever you are, we´ll send someone there within a minute to take you here. We can talk. We´ll fix it, be sure we´ll fix it a - ...."  
  
"Tom, can´t you just CUT THAT CRAP, please?!"  
  
She wasn´t sobbing or hiccuping now. She was positively screaming at him.  
  
"I HATE it when you do that! You always do that! It´s not WE. It´s YOU! I´ve been wanting to talk to YOU, it´s none of this We Sort It Out and We´ll Fix It and We´ll Send Someone stuff, so stop talking in We-terms, will you, what are you, a freakin schizophrenic?!"  
  
He wasn´t the least bit taken aback by her reaction. He had been used to be screamed at by Corleones all his life. And Connie was closer to Sonny´s temper as anyone else in the family. He was a little impressed Connie knew terms like schizophrenic, anyway.  
  
"Fine, I´ll stop then," he said diplomatically. "Yeah." she replied, sounding satisfied. "You do that."  
  
"But," he pointed out reasonably, stretching out in his chair, "you´ll have to tell me at least something, Connie, or else even I won´t be able help you. Now, will you tell where I can see you? Where are you?"  
  
This question was followed by a long, dead silence that was so intense he feared she might have hung up. Had he gone too far?  
  
Then, after some time, Connie´s voice came out of the phone again, now completely run out of sobs, hiccups and squeals, but sore and broken.  
  
"Can´t tell you," she mumbled gravely. "I´m too ashamed." This statement was marked again by silence.  
  
Tom´s mind started racing. The first thought that hit him was that the sister of Michael Corleone was about to tell him she had finally decided on doing the hustle and was now stuck in some fluffy Nevada brothel. He knew about Connie´s constant low of cash, and all the more about her enthusiasm for men in all shapes and sizes.  
  
Goodness. The shame. The publicity. The horror.  
  
But the second thought that hit him was even more scary than the image of Connie calling him in a frilly pale pink negligé, high heels and a whip.  
  
It was so scary that he had to fake a cough to cover the large gulp that was mounting inside his throat.  
  
He and Michael had discussed it. They knew, if there was one family member that was likely to run off and sell out to the cops, it was Connie.  
  
Connie´s anger and frustration with her brother had built up with every tragedy that had marked her life, and might have exploded in a set up, he knew it. Connie was longing for respect, for shelter. To prevent her from running off, Mike had tried to usher her into the role of the family keeper, the surrogate mother of his kids, and had done anything to give her the feeling of being a trustworthy, highly regarded member of the family.  
  
Which was quite a challenge for a man with the emotional warmth of a dentist´s chair.  
  
And, of course, Connie wasn´t a trustworthy and highly regarded member of the family at all, and she knew it.  
  
Tom closed his eyes. No. It was impossible. She couldn´t have....Connie wouldn´t...after all, she had accepted Carlo´s death....she had understood about Fredo... she had never since complained...she wouldn´t have...  
  
"Tom?!" came a squeal. "Tom, you´re still there...? Say something."  
  
Tom took a deep breath. "I. Er. Yes. I´m here. Look, Connie, there´s nothing to be ashamed of, I´m sure, you know you can tell me absolutely everything..."  
  
Only don´t tell me you just had a chat with the FBI, he pleaded.  
  
"All right..." Connie hesitated. He could almost see her gathering strength for the upcoming confession.  
  
His hands started to anxiously whirl around the pen.  
  
"Y-you remember that little Chinese Restaurant around the corner, Mr Fu´s Dragon Palace? Meet me there tomorrow about lunchtime. I´ll fill you in on everything. And," she added merrily, "we can have the special duck dish together."  
  
Tom was halfway through eagerly scribbling down "Mr Fu´s, lunchtime", when he suddenly stopped dead. He remembered Mr Fu´s. But it was only now that he realized where he remembered it from. And it wasn´t exactly around the corner.  
  
"Connie," he said, "you don´t mean the Mr Fu´s Dragon Palace where we once went on Fredo´s birthday? The one where we were thrown out because Sandra started a fight over how to serve squid with the Cantonese cook and Fredo vomited the catfish over the table?"  
  
"That´s exactly the one I mean," she said quietly.  
  
"That," he said, even quiter, "was Sonny´s favorite place."  
  
"I know," her voice was soft now. "I knew you´d remember."  
  
Yes, he did. He and Sonny had spent lots of time there, back in the old times, whenever Sonny grew tired of their mother´s excellent Italian cooking, discussing business while having octopus, catfish and bottles and bottles of weird Chinese beer.  
  
The memory hurt a little. But only a little. He fought off the memory and was back to the point within a second.  
  
"You expect me to fly to New York tomorrow morning?"  
  
"Sure," she replied, sounding puzzled, as if the mere thought he might turn her down sounded like Science Fiction to her.  
  
"That´s the kind of thing you always do, don´t you, Tom?"  
  
All right, but you´re not the Don, he thought.  
  
"You´re in New York, then?" he asked aloud.  
  
"Yeah...I mean, I´ll be there at Mr Fu´s tomorrow," she said quickly. "I- It´s not like I´m in New York all the time, I never said that, I never said I´m in New York. O-or did I?"  
  
He couldn´t help but smile. "No. No, you didn´t say that."  
  
"Does that mean you´ll come?" she asked in a small, girlish voice, as if she´d just invited him to her 11th birthday party.  
  
This notion of childlike faith never completely failed to touch him.  
  
"Sure, Connie. I´ll be there."  
  
After I had a talk with our brother about this, he added in thought.  
  
"Fine," she said, sounding relieved.  
  
Tom didn´t say anything. He expected her to hang up after everything was settled.  
  
He had always been confused when people used the phone not to sort out issues, but merely to CHAT. He thought it bizarre. He thought any kind of small talk bizarre, actually.  
  
There was a moment of silence until Connie asked him, "What are you doing in your office at 4 am, anyway?"  
  
"I...er," he looked around sheepishly, catching sight of the nearly empty bottle of Scotch next to him. He couldn´t believe it was empty. There was no way it could be empty. Again.  
  
"I...I..I´ve some urgent stuff to do for Mike. Have to be finished at about 7 am. Very urgent. Up to my neck in work, to be honest...."  
  
This lie was so feeble it caused him physical pain.  
  
Connie, too, didn´t sound too convinced at all, when she replied, "Oh. Fine. You do that. As long as you make it to Mr Fu´s tomorrow."  
  
"I will," he said. "Bye, Connie."  
  
"Bye. And TOM?!"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"D´you have milk in your fridge?"  
  
Dumbfounded, he stared at the receiver as if it offered some answer to this mystifying question.  
  
"What do you mean: milk?" he asked carefully.  
  
"Oh, it´s very simple,actually" she explained, seemingly not quite as close to a nervous breakdown as he had though.  
  
"When you get up, first thing in the morning, you have a glass of pure milk. The way you sound, it´ll help you. It takes the alcohol away, you know, dunno how it works, but it works. Oh, and before you go to bed, you have to drink at least one large glass of cold water, of course, so you won´t have a hangover." She paused.  
  
Then she added kindly, "Y´know, that´s what Carlo used to do when he had too much booze, and now I do it myself. Trust me, it´ll help."  
  
"Yeah, Connie," he said between clenched teeth, "Grazie. Very nice."  
  
"You´re welcome," she said in a mocking, but pleasant voice, her nosey- little-sister´s voice"and, TOM?!"  
  
"YES?Constanzia?"  
  
"The way YOU sound," Connie snapped dissaprovingly, now every inch the snotty Long Island daddy´s girl she had been ever since, "it won´t hurt you if you go and throw up a little."  
  
He didn´t answer, not knowing what to say, but then she added, in a soft voice: "Trust me on this one. At least these are the kinds of things I know about."  
  
Tom opened his mouth to say, he didn´t really know what, but there was a sharp click, followed by a monotone humming sound.  
  
Connie Corleone had hung up on him. 


	4. Three: Considerations

Out Of Order  
  
Three: Back In Line  
  
The next day started off badly with another phone call from another woman.  
  
He had just sat down at the table, facing today´s breakfast treat.  
  
Eugh. Pure Milk.  
  
When he heard the phone, he left his single glass of white liquid, somewhat relieved, and picked up the phone, hoping it might be Mike.  
  
It was Theresa.  
  
She kept herself brief. He could hear from her voice that she was smoking. Also, she sounded a little bit as if she had learned her lines by heart or was actually reading them very skillfully from a sheet of paper.  
  
"Mother´s condition has not improved yet, the doctor doesn´t think she´ll recover again," she said cooly. "He´s not giving her much time anymore. That means I´ll be staying one more week, maybe two."  
  
She didn´t even try to fake she was sad about staying away from him. He was glad she didn´t. Her attemps at it had been feeble.  
  
"You said the same thing two weeks ago," he pointed out calmly, forcing down some milk.  
  
"May I kindly remind you," she hissed, "of the thousands or so times when I sat and waited, like a good wife has to, when you felt the sudden urge to go on ominous business trips to God Knows Where? No questions allowed? Did I complain? Did I ever speak up?"  
  
"I didn´t go away from you because it suddenly URGED me," he replied, exasperated. "It was all about business I had to attend t-"  
  
"And THIS is all about my mother dying," she snapped, interrupting him. "But it´s very nice, as always, to learn about your priorities..."  
  
Tom decided to prevent the upcoming tiresome discussion from happening. "You know what?" he said as diplomatic as he could. "Take your time. Stay back with your mother as long as you want. I´ll be fine."  
  
There was a little pause. Then his wife said "Good," sounding oddly satisfied.  
  
He finished the milk jar with effort. He didn´t like breakfast at all, normally a small Espresso was all he could stomach in the morning.  
  
At least, Connie had been right. The glass of water had prevented him from waking up to a hangover. The water, or maybe the two or so hours he had spent bending over the toilet bowl, he wasn´t sure about that.  
  
"How´re the girls?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, they´re great," Theresa said, at once becoming very much alive, "You should see them, they just LOVE it down here, they go walking through the woods or swimming or riding all day long, they look so HEALTHY, it seems they don´t even THINK about going back to Nevada...."  
  
"That´s...." he cleared his throat. "That´s....good to hear."  
  
The was a moment of awkward silence between them. He could hear a soft crackle as she lit herself another cigarette.  
  
"Well," she said, after a while, soundin very businesslike, "I´ll have to talk to the doctor. If something changes, I´ll let you know. And you have a good time, right?"  
  
She wasn´t sounding that much like a wife, more like a mother talking to her 12 year old son who had to stay alone over the weekend for the first time in his life.  
  
"I will, don´t worry" he said, as polite as always. "Give the girls a hug from me and send my best regards to your mother."  
  
Theresa didn´t say anything for a second, then she said "Sure, Tom, I´ll do that," in a normal tone but with an ironical streak in her voice that he didn´t like.  
  
He hung up the receiver and stared at the phone.  
  
What hurt him most wasn´t the fact that she was lying to him.  
  
What hurt him most was the fact that she obviously thought he was very stupid.  
  
Him.  
  
She should have known better. She should at least KNOW that he knew a long distance call from Cleveland, where her mother lived (or died) when he got one, and that her phone calls weren´t long distant calls from Cleveland at all.  
  
Getting into his car, he wondered where in Nevada she might be - and with whom - but to his own surprise he lost the interest in this question very soon. It didn´t seem to matter much anymore.  
  
The moment he was on his way to his Don´s New Den he had forgotten about Theresa.  
  
The thought about Connie occupied him much more - not Connie as a person, of course not, he didn´t really worry about Connie being in serious trouble.  
  
Tom had known this woman since she was a little kid, and he had heard her use the term "life or death" more than once in the oddest of situations, when it came to buying a certain dress, having a certain holiday trip, or having a certain someone, who was up to his neck in law exam preparations, pick her up after a party.  
  
Connie might be able to get herself into trouble, but not into serious trouble, not what HE considered serious trouble.  
  
All she needed was a little more discipline, a little more decency. A little more reason.  
  
And this was the thing he really was thinking about on his way to the Corleone Enterprise´s residence.  
  
He wasn´t expected by Michael, and he knew how the Don hated it when people - may it be close associates, brothers, best friends, the Pope or whatever - popped up unexpectedly without giving him time to prepare.  
  
But he had to tell him. It was his duty to his Don, since he knew how eager Mike was to ease down some of the cooking private family struggles. They only meant extra trouble. And they had particularly talked about this case.  
  
Connie had to be brought back in line for one and all times. And if there was one man who was qualified when it came to being in line, it was Tom Hagen.  
  
That was the thing that really interested him about the Connie case. He considered ways to straighten her out. 


End file.
